Break Easy (We All Do)
by tider58
Summary: They could crush each other with their pinky fingers. There's a brutality to loving someone that much. Brittany/Santana drama and angst.
1. Chapter 1

_Words._

Brittany may not have as many at her disposal as Santana does, but she's far more willing to use them freely and generously in the quest for truth and the avoidance of conflict. She knows words are important, maybe more important than kissing and touching and sex, at least when things are going wrong or when there's a gap that's growing between two people. Santana is stubborn enough to simply deny the existence of such a problem, determined enough to believe that her denial has the kind of power she's come to take for granted, like how when she raises an eyebrow in a certain way, people bend to her will, or when she takes it upon herself to put someone in their place, they _stay_ put—if they're smart.

Brittany thinks it's dumb. Not that _Santana_ is dumb, she's like the smartest person in the whole world. But the idea that ignoring a problem in a relationship will make it go away? That's dumb. "It's better without feelings," San had told her once, and Britt knew well enough what the other girl meant, but what it _felt_ like was rejection, bitter and harsh and stinging. And even though it's been a long time since that day in her bedroom, even though they have a life together now and their love is a source of pride and joy instead of fear and shame … even though all those things, Brittany doesn't ever forget the shock and breathless horror that followed Santana's declaration, the sudden dash of terror when she realized once and for all that this girl had the power to demolish her with nothing more than words.

New York is their home now, and Brittany tries hard to focus on the good parts. There are lots of them. She enjoys teaching dance, likes being around the dreamy-eyed kids and the other dancers who treat her like someone different ( _better_?) than she was ever allowed to be in high school. She enjoys the weekly dinners with their Glee family, the familiar rhythms of banter and barbs and bitchery, teasing and arguing that has lost its razor edge and become simple habit, affection even, a gentle reminder of home and history and roots. She loves waking up next to a still-sleeping Santana, dark hair spread in soft tangles across the pillow, mouth open and full lips parted, thick lashes fluttering lightly against delicate cheekbones. She loves Santana, she loves her more than she ever thought she could love anybody. And yet.

And yet something isn't working. It started with an unsettled feeling almost like an itch at the back of her mind. Brittany did her best to ignore it. Santana was busy. She was working, she was in school. It was to be expected. But her long days and late nights, study groups and closing shifts at the diner, those were becoming more the rule than the exception, and there were days that Brittany didn't even see her, or that a brush of the lips as they passed each other in the kitchen was all the contact they would have.

That unsettled feeling began to grow, and before Brittany knows it, it's something more, bigger and scarier, a bone-deep fear that one day Santana will let the gap between them get too big until not even all the words in their collective vocabulary can bring them back together, and then they'll lose each other for good. It scares her so badly it takes her breath away like that day in her bedroom when Santana showed her just how easily she could break Brittany. She tries to tell Santana this one night, tangled up in her on the couch as they wait for the mind-numbing movie to end so they can have sex, but her words aren't good enough and her girlfriend just takes her hand and kisses her mouth, soft and deep, and shakes her head. "Stop that, baby," she says. "I love you. No looking for trouble."

Brittany doesn't like to rock the boat, so she doesn't.

But sometimes when you don't rock the boat, it capsizes anyway. Then all you can do is hang on, dig your nails in, and hope you don't drown.

* * *

"Brittany, what's wrong?"

Kurt's expression was pure concern when he swung the door open and saw their friend standing there, looking equal parts upset—which was rare—and pissed off—which was rarer.

She pushed past him into the loft. "Have you heard from Santana?" she asked.

"No, not since we had a shift together Tuesday night. What's wrong?" he repeated, then called out in a louder voice, "Rachel? Britt's here."

"Just a minute, I'm rinsing!" came a muffled response from the direction of the bathroom, where Rachel was no doubt in the midst of one of her ridiculously involved nighttime skin-care rituals.

Brittany stalked over to the closed door and opened it. Rachel, bent over the sink with her face half covered by some gritty green substance, squealed. "Brittany!" she protested. "There is a thing called privacy!"

"Have you talked to Santana today?"

Rachel paused, thinking. "No. Have you tried her cell?"

"Of course I've tried her cell, Rachel; I'm not an idiot."

Kurt and Rachel exchanged worried glances over Brittany's shoulder. She was generally not a snapper.

"Did … did you guys have a fight?" Kurt ventured carefully, not wanting the blonde to bite his head off too.

"Not yet," Brittany said, reaching into her bag for her phone and sending yet another text to Santana.

"Why are you so worried, though?" Rachel asked. "Santana has been keeping crazy hours all semester. Between work and class and …"

"I know her schedule," Brittany said. "She was going to be home early today. It was important."

Kurt had retreated to the kitchen area and now returned with a glass of wine, handing it to Brittany. "Why don't you sit down."

"One of you call her," Brittany ordered. "You, Kurt. Call her and see if she answers for you."

"What, are you saying she might just be avoiding you? That's crazy, Britt, Santana would never…"

"Just do it! Please?" she added, trying to soften her tone. She took a large gulp from her wineglass and watched Kurt take his phone out and do as she'd asked. She was almost relieved when Santana didn't answer, but that feeling was short-lived as the dizzying combination of worry and anger took its place. "Where the hell could she be?" she asked no one in particular—but of course Rachel couldn't let a question hang in the air.

"I'm sure she's fine, Brittany," she said. "She's Santana. My guess? She picked up an extra shift at the diner and forgot to call. Or she's cramming for that trig exam she's been so worried about. Maybe at the library or with that girl from her class—"

She broke off when Brittany's blue eyes pinned her to the spot. "What girl?" she asked, knowing how it sounded but helpless just now to alter her tone.

"I don't know, just some girl in her class." Rachel glanced to Kurt for help.

"She hasn't mentioned anyone to me," Brittany said. "I mean, she's been studying with groups, but she's never mentioned a name. Why wouldn't she tell me?"

"Britt," Kurt began, his tone soothing, like he was addressing a wounded and potentially dangerous animal. "Don't go down that road. This isn't like you."

Brittany retreated to the couch, not wanting to be told what she already knew—that she was acting like an unstable, jealous girlfriend. All she knew was that Santana had promised to be there tonight. To be at her dance studio's showcase, to take her for dinner after, to have a night that was just about them. It was such a simple thing, really, and Brittany maybe shouldn't have been so upset about San forgetting—if that's what had happened. There were other showcases, and how many times had Santana seen her dance? Thousands? Why would it be such a crime for her to miss this one?

Because she'd said she'd be there. She'd promised, and now there was some girl in her trig class that Kurt and Rachel knew about but Brittany didn't. And it wasn't the first time in recent history that San had failed to keep her word, or forgotten plans, or postponed something at the last minute with promises to make it up to Brittany later. It wasn't the first time, but it was the first time she hadn't responded to phone calls, texts, hadn't immediately called her back sputtering apologies and guilt and love and reassurance. It was the first time Brittany _felt_ pushed aside.

She perched on the edge of Rachel and Kurt's couch and drained the wine. "Can I have a refill?" she asked, intentionally disregarding the not-so-subtle glance of concern that passed between her friends. Kurt reached for her glass, but she held it away. "You know, just bring the bottle."

Brittany didn't drink much, so after she'd finished that bottle and convinced Kurt to open another, she was pretty well on her way to wasted. Rachel had finished washing the gunk off her face and settled down next to Brittany on the couch, both of them staring at the TV where some old movie was playing but not really watching it. Every now and then Brittany would take her phone out and stare at the screen as if she might have missed a text or call even though it had not left her person at any moment.

"She's going to worry if she gets to your apartment and you're not there," Rachel said after such a long period of silence that she startled all three of them.

"Hmm," Brittany hummed noncommittally. What she meant, even though it was mean and unlike her, was "Good."

* * *

She woke with a start to a loud pounding, and sat up so suddenly she slid off the edge of the couch, landing hard on her ass. Where the hell was she? The darkened room was unfamiliar, her eyes roaming over furniture outlines and darkened curves and corners while her head pounded and her stomach swooped.

Then she heard Rachel and Kurt's sleepy, cranky bickering as they emerged from their rooms and headed for the front door and it came back to her. The movie ending, the talk turning somber and one-sidedly tipsy, Kurt bringing her a pillow and a blanket as Rachel helped her get as comfortable on the couch as it was possible to get on a fundamentally uncomfortable couch. Kurt putting a bucket on the floor by her head, "Just in case."

Now it was God-only-knew what time and Brittany's friends were opening the door to a very angry Santana.

"Is she here?" she heard San ask, high heels clicking on the floor as she shoved her way between them into the apartment. "Britt?"

"She's here, and you're going to make our neighbors call the police. It's two in the morning, Santana."

"Brittany? Oh, thank God!" Santana's anger was swallowed—at least momentarily—by a sort of sweeping relief that overtook her features as she crossed the room in big strides and knelt next to Brittany, who was still sitting where she'd fallen.

"Baby, I've been worried sick!"

Brittany had to laugh at that; apparently the wine was still kicking hard in her system. "That's supposed to be my line."

Santana frowned. "What?"

"I called you like a billionty times. I texted you; I called the diner, you weren't anywhere. So I came here. They hadn't heard from you either, and I was pretty sure you wouldn't go and DIE on me, San, that would just be rude. So I went to sleep."

"Brittany, that's—OK, so I left my phone at the library after study group, but by the time I realized it was gone the library was closed. I borrowed someone's phone and called you. You never answered."

"I turned my phone off."

"Why would you do that?" Santana asked, clearly annoyed.

"Because. By then I'd given up on you ever returning my calls and I wanted you to have a taste of your own medicine. Whose phone?"

"What?"

"Whose phone did you borrow?"

Santana's brow furrowed and she seemed to be exercising supreme effort not to unleash on Brittany. "Why does that—are you _drunk_?" Her head whipped around so she could stab Kurt and Rachel with a glare. "Did you guys get her drunk?"

Kurt's eyes widened, and he took that as his cue. He backed up a couple of steps, then snagged Rachel by the collar of her nightgown and pulled her back down the dark hallway toward their rooms, and relative safety.

"I got myself drunk," Britt corrected. "Kurt just supplied the wine. Whose _phone_ , Santana?"

"A friend from school," she said. "But listen, Brittany, this is..."

"The girl from trig class?" Brittany smiled, but there was no humor in her eyes.

" _Huh?_ Brittany, this is so far off the point, I can't even. I just spent two hours thinking you'd been abducted or some shit, and you want to talk about whose _phone_ I borrowed to try to find you?" She was scolding now, working her way back into righteous anger. Brittany decided to save her the effort.

"I'm not the one who was missing," Brittany countered softly. "So you have no right to be mad. Besides. Why were you at the library instead of at my showcase? You promised."

There was a pause, and the anger drained instantly from Santana's face, replaced by a dawning horror. " _Oh_. Oh my God. _Britt_."

"No, s'okay, San. No big deal, right?"

"No, baby, it's not okay! I'm not, I didn't, I."

"Yeah. I get it."

"Stop that, B, please! I would never have bailed on you, you _know_ that. This day just got away from me, and I left before you were up this morning so…"

"So it's my fault because I didn't remind you."

"No! It's not that. I just. Please, _please_ forgive me, Britt. Please. I am _so_ sorry."

Brittany allowed Santana to take her hands in her own, but Britt's remained slack. "I knew you would be," she said in a soft, sad voice. "Just forget it. I'm going to stay here for tonight, okay? I'm sleepy and they made the couch all nice for me. Go home."

"Brittany."

" _Go_ , San!" Brittany saw her command hit its mark; Santana winced as if she'd been slapped. But regardless of the circumstances, it hurt Brittany to hurt her. So Brittany made her tone softer. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Baby, look at me. Please?"

Blue eyes met brown in the dimness.

"I will fix this."

"Okay."

"Get some sleep. I'm going to skip my morning class and come over here to get you in the morning. We'll go to breakfast. Okay?"

Brittany nodded, and let Santana lean forward and press her lips to hers, gentle but firm. "I love you," she said. "Don't scare me like that again."

It was almost laughable, that she could say that when it was Brittany who had spent most of the evening and night worried sick about Santana. But that was San's way, and so she nodded.

"I love you," Santana repeated, a hint of desperation tinging her tone.

She wished it could go without saying, like it used to, like it should. Unquestionable, unwavering truth.

"Me too," she whispered, not meeting Santana's eyes.

* * *

 **Please review if you want more. I'm in an angsty place, but I am also a firm Brittana-Is-End-Game believer, so I can almost guarantee a happy ending. After I put them through the wringer a little bit, of course.**


	2. Chapter 2

Breakfast the next day was a solemn affair. Santana sipped coffee and watched Brittany out of the corner of her eye while a fairly hungover Brittany picked at toast and avoided her girlfriend's gaze.

There were several attempts on Santana's part to apologize again, but Brittany just shrugged them off. "It's no big deal, San, really. I overreacted," she assured her girlfriend, whose brow furrowed because she didn't believe the words but who didn't push the issue because she clearly wanted to move past this.

By the time the two parted ways, Santana heading to class and Brittany back to the apartment until time to go to the studio, the immediacy of their fight seemed to have eased up. But like any conflict that goes unresolved for too long, it festered just below the surface. In the following week, Brittany found herself avoiding Santana in ways she never had in her entire life. She would go to bed before San was home from work, eat lunch at the dance studio instead of meeting Santana at their favorite café or—when their schedules permitted—at the apartment for something a little more appetizing than food. When they found themselves at home at the same time with nothing to do, they let the TV provide background while Santana studied and Brittany did yoga in a corner of the living room.

"Did you ask Rach what we're supposed to bring to dinner tonight?" Brittany asked into the silence almost a full week into this newfound weirdness, grasping her toes with one hand and lifting a lithe leg effortlessly over her head.

Santana didn't look up from the textbook she was poring over. "Oh. I can't make it tonight; didn't I tell you?"

Brittany lowered her leg, staring at her girlfriend who had just dropped this information like she was talking about the weather. "No, you didn't. Why?"

"I have a crazy-hard exam tomorrow and I need all the study time I can get."

"You always come to Rachel's dinners."

Santana looked up then, hearing the edge that had entered Brittany's tone. "Yeah, so missing one isn't a big deal. I'll go next week."

Brittany crossed her legs in front of her and frowned at Santana. "What class?" she asked not-so-casually.

There was a microscopic hesitation before Santana responded, "Trig."

Brittany nodded as if she had suspected as much, then fixed her girlfriend with a look that said everything she needed to say without words.

Santana rolled her eyes when she caught the expression and its meaning. "Britt, come on. Don't be—"

"What? Jealous? Possessive? _Stupid_?" she filled in when Santana broke off abruptly without finishing her sentence.

"Whoa. Brittany, that's not fair. I have _never_ called you that."

"Are you not telling me something because you think I'll get mad?"

Santana scoffed. "Oh, where would I _ever_ get an idea like that?" she asked sarcastically.

"Are you studying with that girl from your trig class tonight, Santana?"

There was a flash of guilt in Santana's dark eyes, there and gone, but Brittany saw it and her heart squeezed tight in her chest. Santana took a deep breath and finally slammed the textbook closed, tossing it onto the coffee table with a loud thud and sitting up as if preparing for battle. "Ah. I was wondering when we were gonna do this. I knew it; I _knew_ you were still stewing over that crap from last week!"

"We never talked about it," Brittany pointed out, her quiet tone belying the storm of emotions brewing just beneath the surface.

"Because you haven't been talking to me about pretty much _anything_ , Brittany!" Santana protested, her voice rising in volume and pitch. "And as far as I'm concerned there's nothing to talk about anyway because whatever you're worrying about is only in your head. You are being ridiculous and I don't have to defend myself over these crazy suspicions, which, by the way, I _do not_ _deserve_."

"You didn't answer the question, Santana," Brittany said in a low, measured tone.

The two held one another's gaze across the small space, Brittany sitting cross-legged, back straight, not a trace of her usual good humor in her blue eyes, while Santana fumed and kept on not answering. As the silence spun out, Brittany figured that was all she was going to get. She nodded once, as if deciding something, and stood up, heading toward the front door.

"Where are you going?"

She was almost at the door when Santana grabbed her just above the elbow. Brittany jerked away as if the touch had burned her. Santana was so surprised she took a step back, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open.

"Jesus, Britt, what _is_ this?"

"This is me asking you to be honest with me, and this is you not doing that. So this is me walking out."

"Brittany, stop. Dammit, stop!"

Santana's grip around her arm was tighter this time, and she used enough force to pull her girlfriend back a few steps into the room. Her eyes were pleading, angry but pleading. "You can't leave like this, Britt. You're upset and angry and you don't need to be wandering around by yourself in this state of mind. Just … stay. Let's talk."

"I'm not a child. I can get around this city as well as you can. And I don't want to be here with you right now."

"I get that. Be pissed, be as pissed as you need to be. I'll give you space, baby, whatever you need. Just don't walk out that door." She hesitated before breaking out the big guns. "We promised, Britt. After Finn … we don't leave angry, you know that."

Brittany took the hit, standing still and breathing deeply and trying not to cry. Finally she raised her head and fixed Santana with a direct, challenging look. "If it's nothing, San, then why are we fighting about it?"

Santana caught her bottom lip between her teeth and took a deep breath through her nose. "Come sit down. Please. I need you to hear me out, and I can't have this conversation if you're poised to run out that door."

" _Shit_ …" Brittany breathed, feeling like she was standing en pointe on a razor edge above a bottomless pit, and that Santana was going to be the gust of wind that pushed her over.

She had taken two steps toward the comfy chair in the living area when Santana's phone, sitting on the coffee table, vibrated to indicate an incoming text. On impulse, and possibly driven by her girlfriend's sudden frantic movement behind her, Brittany picked up the phone and looked at the screen.

"Brittany—" Santana protested, but it was too late.

A deathly silence descended, and Santana reached to take the phone from Brittany's suddenly slack fingers.

"It's nothing, San," Brittany said in a voice devoid of any emotion whatsoever. A voice that chilled Santana's blood in her veins. " _Kristen_ wants to know if you can meet earlier than you'd planned. At her place." She raised haunted, shell-shocked, accusing eyes to Santana's before delivering the last part. "Her roommate is out for the night."

With that, the phone slipped from Brittany's fingers and she shoved past Santana, ignoring her desperate shouts for her to come back, wait, she could explain, this wasn't what she thought… Brittany left the apartment door hanging open as she took the stairs two at a time, running blind and desperate, the need to escape driving her entire body forward as Santana's shouts faded, blessedly, into the distance.

* * *

 **Hey there! Can you do me a big favor and leave a review if you'd like me to continue with this story? Reviews are the ultimate motivator, and I'm kind of ashamed to admit this, but it's true: Many a story has died on me from a dearth of feedback. I hope to finish this one because I can't leave my girls miserable like this!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey, I got a few reviews on this! Yay! Thanks for taking the time. This chapter is a little longer, and I hope to wrap it up in one or two more chapters. Please let me know what you think. Big love and hugs and thanks to kcarolj65! I miss you and hope all is well!**

* * *

Santana's default emotion was anger. She couldn't help it; she'd always been that way. All roads led there: worry, sadness, fear, uncertainty, frustration—hell, sometimes even happiness threw her off and started the trajectory back to her baseline. So the guilt and general upset that settled over her when Brittany ran out after seeing the text from Kristen had plenty of time in the hours that followed to devolve and metamorphose until she felt her blood boiling in her veins and sparks shooting out of her eyes.

That's probably why, when Sam opened the door to Kurt and Rachel's loft and caught sight of her, he took an involuntary step back and glanced over his shoulder as if searching for backup. She ignored Trouty, stepping around him and slinging her purse onto the nearest surface, her eyes scanning the casual assemblage of familiar faces: Sam, Kurt, Rachel, Mercedes, Artie. "Where is she?" she asked the general population. When blank stares met her simple question, she let out a growl of frustration and clarified as if she were addressing a group of half-bright toddlers. " _Brittany_ , people! Tall, hot blonde, amazing dancer, ring any bells? _Ay dios mio,_ you're all hopeless," she snapped when they all just exchanged rather desperate glances and waited for someone else to appease the angry Latina. She strode over to stand in front of Rachel, the most likely of the group to crack. Putting her hands on the shorter girl's shoulders and meeting her gaze steadily, she bit out: "Where. Is. Brittany?"

Kurt bravely stepped forward and handed Santana a cold beer before proclaiming the obvious: "She's not here."

Santana shot him a scathing look, her brow furrowing. "Well no shit, Sherlock. I didn't think she was hiding under Berry's playbill collection. But this is our weekly dinner? The thing we do every week? The thing she got pissed at me just this morning for saying I was going to miss? She's supposed to be here."

Rachel coughed and attempted a smile. "She … she's not coming."

"What do you mean she's not coming?"

Rachel's eyebrows shot up and Santana ignored the silent implication: _That seems fairly obvious._

"She called me about an hour ago and said she couldn't make it. That you … you might be looking for her and that I was not to tell you where she is." She cleared her throat as Santana continued staring her down. "She's fine, though. I mean, clearly, she had the wherewithal to make a phone call for etiquette purposes, so I think…"

"Oh for God's sake, Berry. Where is she? I need to talk to her."

"I know, Santana, but … I'm not at liberty to say."

Santana's dark eyes flashed. "Are you at _liberty_ to preserve your own face? 'Cause if you don't tell me where Britt is, I may have to rearrange it for you."

"All right, Santana, let's cool it with the threats; this isn't high school," Mercedes said, bolstered by the two glasses of wine she had already imbibed and also less than impressed with Santana's reversion to her old mean girl persona. "If Britt asked Rachel to keep her mouth shut, then we should all be proud of Rachel for her loyalty. I mean, come on, shutting up is _not_ the easiest thing for this one to do."

There was a general murmur of assent.

Rachel frowned at them all. "Um, _thank you,_ Mercedes?" she said. "But backhanded compliments aside, she's right. Santana, I would keep your confidence if you asked, so why wouldn't I do the same for Brittany?"

Santana took a long pull off her beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Because, Berry, I'm _worried_ about her. She took off after this crazy misunderstanding, and she was pissed off, and she's not answering her phone, and she doesn't get around the city very well on a _good_ day. I called the dance studio and they said she wasn't there, and clearly she's not here, and those are the only places I can even think of where she might go. I need to know that she's okay."

"She's okay," Rachel said, her tone soft and understanding. "I mean, she's upset. But she's okay."

"Did she tell you what we fought about?"

Rachel hesitated a moment too long. "Well, not … not everything. Just … she's upset."

"I'm not cheating on her. I would _never_ cheat on her."

"Whoa, now, no one said—"

"Oh shut up, Artie. If Britt told her version of events then I have no doubt Rachel here shared it with all of you and you guys immediately jumped on the Brittany train without giving me a chance to defend myself. So I'm just telling you, not that you deserve any kind of explanation, _I did not and I would not_ cheat on Brittany." She paused and chugged more of the beer that was sweating in her hot hand.

"Actually, we kind of already know that."

Santana's gaze landed on Mercedes. "What?"

"We've known you for a long time, Santana," Kurt added.

"We knew you loved Brittany before _you_ did," Rachel said, smiling slightly when Santana glared at her, then paused and gave a brief nod as if to say _Okay, fair._

"If soulmates exist, then you and Brittany are soulmates," Sam said, and his voice was suddenly husky, and his eyes avoided Santana's, and she knew it was hard for him, in particular, to admit. She felt some of her anger dissipate.

"So what am I supposed to do?" she asked the group at large. "I just want to make her see I'm telling her the truth. I hate to think of her out there hurting and ... I don't know. Where _is_ she?" She looked back to Rachel. "Please, Berry. You know I hate to beg, but I am begging you right now. Please tell me where Britt is so I can go fix this."

There was a long, heavy silence, but one look at Santana's pleading eyes made up Rachel's mind that breaching this particular confidence was for the greater good. She avoided Kurt's gaze and pretended she didn't notice him shaking his head slightly from over Santana's shoulder. She took a deep, shaky breath, and then said, "She just said … she said she needed to 'dance it out.'"

"So they lied to me when I called? She's at the studio?"

Rachel shrugged. "I'm just telling you what I know."

Santana drained the beer bottle, tossed it into the trash can, and gave Rachel an appreciative nod. "Thanks," she said sincerely. "I'll talk to you guys later."

* * *

Brittany was red-faced and sweat-soaked, but she didn't want to stop dancing. It was the one thing that made her feel like she was in control, and right now that's what she needed more than anything. All she kept thinking was that she was losing Santana, had maybe lost her already, to some girl whose name she had never heard from San's lips but who felt it her place to invite Santana over when her roommate was gone for the night— _because_ her roommate was gone for the night. It wasn't in Brittany's nature to be suspicious, but she wasn't nearly as stupid as lots of people thought she was, and she'd learned over the years to trust her gut because her heart was too gullible.

Santana lashed out when she was upset; Brittany danced.

She was so tired she was about to drop when someone cleared their throat behind her. She caught sight of him in the wall of mirrors: Chris. He was a recent addition to the studio's teacher lineup and had made it clear during his time there that he was attracted to Brittany. For that reason he made her slightly uncomfortable, but he was nice enough and hadn't done anything that led her to believe he was any kind of threat. She didn't miss a beat when she noticed him watching, and he grinned as he fell into step with her. Together they began to spin and twirl and move as one. It was exhilarating, and gave her a boost of energy as her exhausted feet effortlessly kept up with him, _guided_ him.

When the song ended she moved to the sound system and turned the volume down. "I didn't know anyone was here still," she said, slightly out of breath from the exertion. She leaned her back against the mirrors and slid down until she was sitting on the smooth wooden floor, her long legs sprawled out in front of her.

"I had an after-hours one-on-one with one of my advanced students," he said. "You?"

Brittany shrugged. "You know. Just a bad day. I needed to clear my head."

He nodded. "I do that, too," he said. "No better way to reset than to dance your ass off." He paused. "Anything you want to talk about?"

She met his eyes, half-amused at his forwardness. "If I told you, I'd have to dance some more, and I'm not sure my feet can take it right now."

"Ah, I see. Sounds like relationship trouble?"

"Feet."

"Got it."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, and then she started shoving her stuff into her dance bag. "I should go, anyway," she said, suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to be home, even if Santana weren't there. Even if Santana was out with … _her_. "I have to be back here early and I should take a hot bath and soak these muscles tonight or I'll be worthless for all my classes tomorrow."

"You couldn't be worthless if you tried," Chris remarked, and Brittany raised an eyebrow at him.

"You say that," she said.

"So where are we headed?" he asked.

"Oh, my apartment's close; I can walk from here. Just a few blocks." In her head, she saw Santana's disapproving frown and heard her overprotective, don't-even-bother-to-argue tone: _Britt, I don't want you walking by yourself from the studio when it's dark. Call me and I can be there in ten minutes._

"I'll walk you," Chris said firmly. "I could do with the fresh air."

"Fresh air," Brittany laughed. "In this city?"

"It's all relative."

"I guess," she said. "I've lived my whole life in Ohio, so…"

"They have better air in Ohio?"

She smiled. "Kind of, yeah."

Once her bag was all packed up, she took Chris' hand and let him pull her to her feet. "We need to lock up," she said, fishing her key out of her pocket and killing the lights in the studio as they made their way to the front door. Plunged into darkness, the usually familiar space was suddenly foreign to her. So when she tripped over her own feet and let out a little squeal, she was mostly surprised that she didn't face-plant. Chris held her tightly by the arms and helped her regain her footing. She giggled a little, nervous at the sudden stillness. And then she looked up and saw his face right in front of hers, close, too close, and she had a moment to think _Oh, oh no. This is all wrong_ before his lips were pressing against hers.

* * *

Santana had spent the whole subway ride over thinking of how she was going to approach the topic with Brittany. They had to first clear the air about Kristen; she needed to dispel any lingering suspicion in Britt's mind that there was _anything_ there, at least not on Santana's part. Kristen had been a friend, someone to commiserate over shitty classwork with, to prep for tests and compare notes and occasionally share the burden of college life over a drink with several other people from the hellish experience that was trig. Santana hadn't had many friends in her whole life, and that number dwindled to just about zero if you were talking about friends outside of the godforsaken Glee Club, and part of her craved the newness these people offered, the fact that they _didn't_ know every minute detail of her life for the past four or more years. They _hadn't_ been there for every noteworthy moment of Santana's life thus far, and there was something appealing in that, in the idea that these people didn't see her as Santana Lopez, one-third of the Unholy Trinity and prematurely outted Cheerio and erstwhile bitch and Homecoming Queen failure and fierce representative of Lima Heights Adjacent and vicious Brittany Pierce protector and devotee. If there were any guilt to be had it was in the fact that she'd sensed that the other girl was into her, but as far as Santana returning any of those feelings or, God forbid, _acting_ on it? Hell no. She was Brittany's. She had _always_ been Brittany's. And she'd be damned if she was going to let Brittany, of all people, forget that.

It was raining by the time she arrived at the dance studio, and she was soaked to the bone but didn't care even though it was sure to wreak havoc on her hair. She had raised her hand to knock on the glass double doors when the lights inside started to go out, in a pattern, room by room. Before the last set of lights was extinguished, though, she caught sight of Brittany and another person. A guy, tall, chiseled, his eyes glued to Santana's girlfriend in a way that was decidedly more than friendly, and Santana's heart stuck in her chest as she watched. Then Britt smilingly reached for the switch that controlled the front office overhead fluorescents, and Santana's view of the inside of the studio was snuffed out—momentarily.

A streetlight above her on the glistening sidewalk shone just enough light to illuminate just beyond the front doors of the studio. Just enough for Santana to see Brittany trip, to see this guy catch her heroically by the arms and haul her back up, helping her find her balance. To see Brittany's goofy smile, the one that was half embarrassed, half genuinely amused by her own uncharacteristic clumsiness. To see the guy next to her move in for the kiss, and to see the confused, hesitant, but horrifyingly NOT-UNWILLING expression on Brittany's face as he did it.

And then Santana's brain—and her heart—exploded.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for reading and reviewing! I'm glad some of you are still on the Brittana ship. I am, forever and always. Hope you like this chapter.**

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Brittany was so stunned by the unexpected kiss that she didn't even see—or sense, as was sometimes their way—Santana's presence on the other side of the glass. She took a step back and raised a hand to her mouth, trying to resist the urge to wipe away the foreign sensation of not-Santana's lips on hers so that she wouldn't hurt his feelings. Because he was looking at her now, uncertainty and hope all over his face, and Brittany hated to hurt people, hated it worse than pretty much anything else, and she should say something because he wasn't looking away, he still had a question in his eyes that she really didn't want to answer as bluntly as she probably needed to and this was getting super awkward—and then it got far worse because Santana was suddenly _there_.

The doors were locked because the studio was technically closed, but Santana's almighty yank on the handle caused the entire glass facing of the place to rattle in its frame. Then her palm slapped the glass hard, and Brittany flinched as Chris mumbled a low "What the hell?"

"Oh my god," Brittany muttered, reaching to unlock the door. Chris' hand landed on her wrist; he obviously thought she was about to let in this alarming stranger who, if the murderous look in her eyes was any indication, was _clearly_ insane.

"You should probably back away from the door," Brittany said to Chris. "She's small but she's super strong."

"What? I don't—"

"She's my girlfriend," Brittany explained distractedly. "Really, Chris, get back. I don't know if I can calm her down before she hits you."

Startled by the revelation that Brittany was both gay and taken—apparently by a violently possessive lunatic—Chris did as he was told, retreating to put the front counter between himself and the dark-eyed, person-shaped mass of rage and retribution who pushed right past Brittany the second the door was unlocked.

"Hey, dancer boy, you wanna tell me what the fuck your lips were doing on my girlfriend's lips? Oh wait, there's actually not a right answer to that question."

"Santana, stop," Brittany urged, grabbing at her and trying in vain to get a grip on both of Santana's arms as the dark-haired girl made a beeline for Chris, whose eyes had grown saucer-size and was now not entirely sure he could take her even if he were to try to defend himself. Brittany, to her credit, was doing a decent job of preventing the other girl from getting within arm's reach of him, and for that he was grateful, but he wasn't going to bank on determination against fury. He continued to back away as Brittany managed to get a respectable hold on Santana's upper arm and a struggle commenced between the two of them. He used the moment to retreat to the back office, where there was a door to the alley beyond.

"Where do you think you're going, Casanova?" Santana's shout followed him down the hallway. "Get back here and face me like a man!"

"Santana, I'm serious. Don't!"

Santana squirmed in Brittany's grasp, but her fingers wouldn't budge. "Let go of me, Britt, this guy doesn't get to kiss you and walk away without losing some blood."

"You are acting like a crazy person, San, just calm down and listen to me."

Santana stopped struggling and glared daggers at her girlfriend, suddenly seeming to remember that there were two people involved in that lip lock she'd witnessed. " _Listen_ to you? What could you _possibly_ say to explain what I just saw? No, please enlighten me, Brittany, because I really don't like any of the scenarios I can think of."

Brittany took a deep breath, relieved that Santana wasn't fighting her anymore, and that Chris seemed to be out of immediate danger, but not ready to let go of her just yet.

"If I let go of your arm you have to promise me you're not going to go after him," she said, her tone low and serious.

Santana rolled her eyes and barked out a laugh, but her voice was raw, scratchy, dripping with sarcasm and hurt. "Aw, isn't that _sweet_. Your concern for lover boy there just melts this bitch's ice-cold heart, Britt."

Brittany shook her head in disbelief, her hand going slack and sliding off Santana's arm. "What are you _suggesting_?" she demanded, looking at Santana with unmasked horror in her eyes.

Santana scoffed. "What do you _think_? What am _I_ supposed to think? You bail on me in the middle of a fight about absolutely nothing and disappear into the city and I find you here sucking face with some ball-bearing ballerina you probably see ten times as much as you see me. What I _think_ is that you need to _explain_ yourself _. Now_."

It was Brittany's turn to laugh, the sound bursting from her, shocked and bitter. She didn't even know where to start. "You think I'm _cheating_ on you?"

Santana folded her arms across her chest and set her jaw defiantly.

"You think _I_ ," Brittany gestured toward her own chest dramatically, as if making sure she was crystal clear on Santana's misgivings before tearing into her, "am cheating on _you_. _You_ , who's been seeing some girl for 'study dates' for _weeks_ without ever mentioning it to me. _You_ , who had a freaking _date_ with her tonight and lied to me about it. How can you even?"

Santana's stony expression faltered, confusion furrowing her brow. "Wait. Britt, no. That's not what."

"Just stop it. I don't want to hear your justifications, Santana. Keeping something like that from me is _not okay_. How would you feel if I was doing the same thing?"

Santana gestured toward the door. "Brittany! You were kissing someone! I _saw_ you! How is that not a zillion times worse than me having a damn study buddy who happens to be female and happens to _maybe_ be into me? You _know_ I would never cheat on you, you _know_ that!"

"And I would never cheat on you! Why are you accusing me?"

"I can't even believe you're having trouble with this one, Britt. It's simple: _I saw you kissing someone who was. not. me._ Tell me that you get why I'm angry!"

There was a long pause, and when Brittany spoke she was no longer yelling. "See, that's the difference between us, San," she said softly. "You're mad. I'm hurt. You kept this _thing_ from me and even if it isn't a big deal from your point of view, I'm sure it is from hers, and it sure as heck is from mine. You're mad that some guy kissed me, but you. You broke my heart today, Santana."

The two of them stood there in stunned silence for a while, Santana staring at the floor, Brittany at her clasped hands. There was something looming between them, big and scary, potential destruction of something unutterably precious. Whoever moved first would determine the course.

They moved at the same time.

Brittany went for the door, Santana reached for her and just missed. "Britt, wait," she called after her, but Brittany had slipped through the glass doors and out into the rainy night.

Santana quickened her pace to catch up to her girlfriend, slipping an arm around her waist and drawing them both to a stop. "Baby, please. Don't walk away from me again, okay?" She tried to smile, but the smile was watery, tearful. "Brittany, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm just so fucking _sorry_."

Brittany's hand acted of its own accord, reaching up to wipe tears and rain from Santana's cheeks.

"We can't keep doing this," Brittany said, and she didn't miss the look of terror that shot through her girlfriend's eyes. As the rain picked up, she had to speak louder to be heard over the sound. It gave her words a powerful, compelling air, as if she knew exactly what she was going to say before she said it instead of just letting loose with her heart's burden. "This is not _us_. We're changing. It's partly this city, it's partly college and dance and all the new stuff, the new people. And that's okay, we're supposed to change, we have to, I think. But change can also mean growing apart, and that's what we've mostly been doing. You feel it too, right?"

A few more tears slipped from Santana's eyes, but she nodded and met Brittany's gaze.

"We can't keep doing it. If we keep walking away from each other we're going to look up one day and realize we don't know how to get back. It's going to happen soon, I feel it. That's not what I want. Is that what you want, San? If it is, you have to tell me now."

"How can you ev—God no. You're the only thing in my life that has ever made sense."

Relief filled Brittany's eyes and pushed her on. "Then we fix this. Right now. We stop keeping stuff from each other and we stop brushing things off that we don't want to talk about, even if we think it's going to cause a fight. Sometimes you have to fight to keep stuff. We can't be scared to fight sometimes."

Santana laughed a little through her tears. "I've never been scared to fight with anyone _but_ you."

"I mean it, Santana. Tell me you're pissed off, that I spent too much time at the studio and missed dinner or that you wanted to have sex and I fell asleep. Or that there's a guy who works at the studio who keeps trying to ask me out and I never told him to get lost because I kind of liked the attention." Santana's eyes flashed at that, but Brittany just nodded and went on. "It's _okay_ to be mad at me, San. And it's okay for me to be upset that you forgot about my showcase and our date and that you've been hanging out with a girl who thinks you're hot because clearly she has kinda awesome taste. We have to get it all out there. If we don't, we'll just keep pretending we're okay until we can't tell the difference anymore."

Santana closed her eyes briefly, took a deep, centering breath through her nose, then curled into Brittany's arms. They stood there like that, bodies squeezed tightly together, heedless of the rain and the passersby and the fact that they were both crying a little bit now and drawing a few curious glances.

At last Santana looked up into Brittany's face, warmth flooding her at the smile touching her lips, the love in her eyes. "I've _missed_ you," she admitted. "I don't think I even realized how much until you said all of that."

"Well, one of us has to be the brains of this relationship," Brittany teased, brushing off her shoulders smugly.

"You're not just the brains, Britt," Santana said, shaking her head. "You're the heart. You're the whole damn heart."

Britt smirked and reached for Santana's hand, but Santana shook her head and pulled out of the grasp. Then she extended her pinky, looking at Brittany searchingly over the top of her hand. Without a second's hesitation, Brittany linked her pinky through Santana's and squeezed. Smiling, they started through the rain toward home.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Hey! Thanks to those of you who advised me to tag Brittany and Santana in the story profile. It definitely seemed to help attract more readers. Welcome, and thank you for giving this story a shot! Personally, I can't get enough of these two. I love exploring the depth and nuances and layers that we were never privy to on the show but which I KNOW (because I am nothing if not a stubborn and imaginative shipper) existed. Read on, and let me know what you think. Your reviews and PMs are so wonderful and so inspirational. Your words are food for a fic-writer's soul.**

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One of Santana's most vivid memories was from a sleepover at Quinn's at the age of 12. It was their Friday night/Saturday morning standard, side-by-side sleeping bags on the popcorn-littered basement carpet, a TV that hadn't been turned off after the previous night's movie droning out early-morning news. Finding herself awake first, and chilly in the darkness, Santana rolled over in her sleeping bag and started to maneuver her bag closer to Brittany, hoping to take advantage of body heat and Britt's unflaggingly enthusiastic willingness to cuddle. But then Santana's gaze fell on a sleeping Brittany, bluish light from the TV flickering across her angelic face, and Santana felt her breath catch in her throat.

She froze, her mouth falling open at the sensations suddenly pulsing through her veins. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, Santana watched helplessly as her hand suddenly darted out of its own accord to brush a lock of silky blonde off her best friend's forehead. The motion was gentle, whisper-soft, and Brittany didn't stir, but Santana jerked away as if she'd been burned, glancing guiltily around the room to make sure she really was the only one awake and aware. Across from them, Quinn was snoring softly, and on either side of her, Sarah and Katie—both fellow cheerleaders at WMMS—seemed suitably unconscious. Relieved, Santana turned her attention back to Brittany.

...whose sleepy blue eyes were squinting up at her, her lips curving in a drowsy but sweet smile.

"Morning San," she whispered.

Santana's face blazed with the blood that had rushed there. "Hey," she said, her voice cracking.

"You're cold. Wanna come in with me?"

"What? No way! There—there's not enough room." Santana realized that her tone was a little harsher than she generally used with Brittany and cursed herself for the flicker of confusion that crossed Britt's features.

"You _are_ cold, look, you have goosebumps," Brittany said, trailing a finger down Santana's bare arm. Santana somehow refrained from jumping a foot in the air at the touch, slapping the invading hand away, or, worst of all, throwing herself into her friend's arms. She had never been so tightly wound so early in the morning. Brittany unzipped the side of her sleeping bag and held it open. "Come on," she urged. "M'not ready to get up yet."

Santana glanced back at Quinn and the other girls for a few moments, hesitant. But finally she took a deep breath and climbed in next to Brittany, letting the other girl zip both of them into a sleeping bag made for one.

Santana didn't go back to sleep that morning; she lay there feeling the weight of her devotion to the girl who was pressed warmly against her back. It wasn't the first time she had felt it, but looking back, Santana knew it was the first time she'd _understood_ it. It was the morning she began to grasp this terrifying and life-altering truth: Brittany was hers. She would protect this girl from everything, from the world and all the idiots in it, from _herself_ if it ever came to that—forever.

* * *

The make-up sex was glorious—and abundant. Santana awoke the morning after their rainy sidewalk confrontation in a hopeless tangle of sheets and Brittany limbs, the muscles in her legs still deliciously weak and a pleasant, buzzing sense of satisfaction in the pit of her stomach. She propped herself up on her elbow to gaze at her girlfriend. For a moment she reflected on the 12-year-old girl she had been, overwhelmed by something she didn't understand and was in no way prepared to explore, and she wished she could go back in time, appear in that basement on that chilly early morning and tell the dumbass preteen that it would be okay, that it would suck sometimes, getting there, and that she would take some hits, big ones—but that in the end it would be so far beyond worth it she couldn't even put words to it.

Brittany moaned the way she did when she was on the verge of waking, and Santana pressed her lips to the firm soft skin of her girlfriend's bare stomach. When she glanced up, Brittany was smiling with her eyes closed.

"Morning," Britt greeted, her voice deep and throaty and—God—so hot.

"Hi," Santana returned. "How do you feel?"

"Like I had lots and lots of sex last night."

Santana chuckled. "You're welcome," she teased.

"How do _you_ feel?" Brittany countered.

"Like I had lots and lots of sex last night … and could go another few rounds."

"What time is it?"

Santana rolled over to glance at the bedside clock. "Almost eight. But it doesn't matter."

Britt groaned. "No, it does, though. We both have a nine o'clock."

"Shit, Brittany, don't make me go to class."

Brittany giggled, pressing her lips to the top of Santana's head and stroking a gentle hand down her bare back. "You're going to class to learn. I'm going to class to teach. We can do more of the fun bed stuff later."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Oh, hey, Britt? The class I have this morning? It's trig."

"I know."

"I have that test."

"I know."

"I'm probably going to flunk the hell out of it, but … I want you to know … I'm going to tell her I can't hang out with her anymore."

There was a long silence as Brittany gently untangled locks of Santana's tousled hair. "Is that what you want?"

"I don't want this between us," Santana said. "I don't … I don't want anything between us."

"San, look at me."

Santana shifted in bed so that she was looking up into kind blue eyes, her chin resting on Britt's hipbone.

"I don't want to be that girlfriend who dictates who her girlfriend can and can't be friends with. That's not me. I trust you. Maybe I forgot for a little while, but … I trust you with, like, _everything_. You've always been with me, San. You've always taken care of me."

Santana smiled wistfully. "You take care of me, too."

"And I always will. You do what you need to do, but don't do it because I've been weird and jealous. It's just I was afraid of losing you. Now that I've reminded you of how, like, _incredible_ I am in bed, I'm pretty sure you're in for the long haul." Brittany winked.

"You couldn't get rid of me if you tried, Britt-Britt."

"Promise?"

"I _promise_."

* * *

"Hey, um, you got a second?"

As the classroom emptied around them, the brunette glanced up from where she was stuffing her trig notes back into her bag and raised her eyebrows at Santana. "Sure, but it's a little late to tell me you have to bail last night." The comment was intentionally measured but laced with sarcasm.

Santana fidgeted, not making eye contact. "Yeah, um, about that."

" _About_ that." The girl smirked, totally enjoying Santana's discomfort. "No big deal, it's not like I waited up for you to show or anything."

"I, um. I think I ... I mean I _know_. I know I should have, um, when we first met, I didn't, I—"

"Santana, this is a whole new side of you. I didn't think you ever had trouble speaking your mind." The girl was eyeing Santana carefully. This was either going her way or not. And judging by Santana's nervous manner and evasiveness, it was not.

"Kristen, look. I have a girlfriend. I have a girlfriend and we are in a very serious relationship, a committed relationship, and I didn't tell you that when we met and I should have." The words tumbled out clumsily and lay there between the two of them, and Santana suddenly felt terribly stupid. What if she had misjudged the whole thing and Kristen didn't like her that way at all? It's not like Santana had a whole slew of lesbian flirtation experience under her belt. She blew out a breath. "I'm sorry, that was..."

"Presumptuous?" Kristen filled in. She zipped her bag and stood up so that they were face to face. "Hate to break it to you, Lopez, but I'm neither surprised nor devastated by this news."

"Okaaaay … I didn't think you would be."

"Yeah you did."

Santana rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Just, I mean, sorry if I got the wrong idea or something but I just thought I should tell you why I can't hang out with you anymore."

At that, Kristen's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, what? This girlfriend of yours has a problem with you studying with someone just because she has a vagina? I didn't figure you for the type to be short-leashed."

Santana bristled. "That's not it at all. I just—she doesn't—"

"She doesn't trust you, I get it. I've had relationships like that, too, and believe me, it'll get old real fast. Having someone dictate who you can and can't hang out with, looking over your shoulder all the time, waiting for you to do something she can twist around and turn into an accusation. She'll do it until you actually _do_ cheat on her, just to shut her up. Those kinds of bitches just aren't worth it, Santana."

In Kristen's defense, she couldn't have known that she had just thrown Santana's protective switch into overdrive, but when she saw the dark-haired girl's eyes flash fire she got a glimpse of the Santana Lopez of WMHS, and she had to force herself not to back up a step or three.

"Okay, _first_ of all? You don't know what the hell you're talking about, so I suggest you lock it up. My relationship is nothing like yours, my girlfriend is _nothing_ like any tramp you've lured into your sticky little web, and trust is not the issue. You see, I get your game, I see how you play your cards and how right now you're trying to hold your ground when all you really want to do is back the fuck out that door and move on to your next conquest, which, if she's half as smart as I am, will be just as much of a strike-out as this attempt was. Because, Kristen, say what you will, you are not as subtle as you think and you are far less skilled at manipulation than I am. I'll admit I fell for it for a little while, but that's just because I was off my own game. Now that my head's back on straight, I see you for exactly what you are. A petty, calculating, insecure little bitch who wants to tear down what she can't have for herself. And you know what? I've _been_ you; it sucks. So take a good look at yourself, at your relationships and your motivations and ask yourself if you want to be alone forever. If so, congrats, you're well on your way. If you want to eventually be a _fraction_ as lucky as I am with the girl I love with my entire _soul_? You got some serious work to do. Good luck with that."

Santana spun on her heel, long silky hair fanning out behind her, and Kristen watched her sweep out of the classroom as she entertained a confusing swirl of emotions—irritation that the girl had gotten the last words, disappointment that she'd never get to see if Santana's body was as slamming without clothes as it was with them, and—not least of all—a healthy dose of arousal. Because _damn_.

* * *

A couple of weeks later, Santana barely passed her next trig exam. It didn't have to be said that she was a little more than pissed about it. She'd maintained a really solid average so far, and this was a big blow to her ego as well as her GPA. Brittany's attempts to cheer her up fell flat.

"There's still time left in the semester, you'll get your grade back up. I'll quiz you next time before the exam. It used to work, remember, especially with our little added incentives?" Brittany winked, hoping to tease her girlfriend out of her current funk.

"You can't _quiz me,_ Britt, this stuff doesn't work that way. It's not like they make trigonometry flashcards."

"Well, they should."

Santana sighed and lay back on the couch, pulling a pillow to her chest. "I was doing fine when I had a study group," she muttered.

Brittany looked up at that, wordlessly. Santana deflated. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean—"

"It's okay, I know," Britt reassured her. "But San, you can do this."

"I can't! That's just it. I can't wrap my brain around this shit, and I'm going to lose my scholarship if my grade keeps tanking."

"It'll be fine, you just need a little extra help."

"This isn't high school, Brittany," Santana snapped. "There's no Mr. Schue to offer sappy words of wisdom and no Ms. Pillsbury to remind me that I'm worth it and no Coach Beiste to get the professor to give me a second chance on the exam. College is _different_. No one cares if you fail."

Brittany let that sit there for a few moments, watching Santana's discomfort blossom as she let the words echo in her ears until she was practically squirming with guilt.

"I know more about failing than you do," she finally stated, and Santana winced.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just keep trying."

Brittany shifted over on the couch and pulled Santana into her arms. She wasn't sure San would let her, not in the prickly mood she was in, but it turned out to be the right move. Santana's arms wound around Britt's waist and her face buried into her chest and the two of them gave and received comfort effortlessly—it was just like it used to be.

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 **I've had a shit day and am nursing a sore heart. I'd love to lose reality in fanfiction for a while, so if you can just click that review tab and tell me things, you'll be doing me a world of good—and if that's not incentive for you, it'll also ensure a quick update.**


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